Fatigue Fracture
by JolieBlack
Summary: He's alive, and he's back, but he didn't make it in one piece. - Missing scenes from the beginning of "The Empty Hearse". Heavy angst, much hurt and little comfort.


**Summary:**

He's alive, and he's back, but he didn't make it in one piece. - A succession of missing scenes from the beginning of "The Empty Hearse". Heavy angst, much hurt and little comfort.

 **Author's Note:**

It has always irritated me that the Serbia scenes were played mostly for comedy in "The Empty Hearse". So as far as you can fix something by making it a whole lot worse, this is a fix-it.

 **WARNING** for implied sexual assault/sexual violence. Although off-screen, if this is likely to bother you, please don't read.

* * *

She talks incessantly.

She must be forgiven, really - her day-to-day life must be utterly lonely and monotonous, always having been limited to hearth and home, and her range even further reduced now in her old age by her crippling arthritis. It makes her hobble around laboriously and clutch her bad hip with a groan at every sudden move.

Besides, he admittedly has something to make up for in the department of communication. He has been a guest in her home since very early this morning, when he left the cover of the surrounding woods just before dawn to knock on the window at the back of her cottage, as instructed. But they'd barely exchanged a dozen words before he crashed - quite literally - on her narrow bed in the hindmost corner of the little one-room house and slept for ten hours straight.

And even now that he's woken up, at dusk, he can't resist staying in bed just a little while longer. It's strange to say this of a musky old horsehair mattress, but it feels like the most comfortable sleeping place he's been in for months. He lies looking up at the smoke-blackened beams of the wooden ceiling, and listens to her pottering about on the other side of the curtain that separates the sleeping quarters from the rest of her home - a flimsy wall of cotton, covered in a riot of large, lurid red and green flowers.

He flinches guiltily when she suddenly pokes her head around the curtain to see whether he's awake. She grins a semi-toothless grin, and announces that dinner is ready.

He can barely get a word in from that point onwards, even if he wanted to, but she doesn't seem to mind. She's content to do all the necessary as well as a lot of unnecessary talking while he spoons down her vegetable soup with genuine gratitude and almost indecent haste. It tastes odd - a little sour - but it's rich and nourishing and _warm_ , and it's not just out of politeness that he accepts a second and then even a third helping.

He trusts her implicitly. And not only because he doesn't have a choice. Her face - skin like a walnut, brown and covered in innumerable wrinkles - beams at him across the table. She's truly relishing what she's doing, exactly as her reputation would have it. She still takes an almost sinful pleasure in subversive activities, even if it's only making soup for a fugitive from justice these days. It's no surprise; her record of flaunting authorities goes right back to the days of the Nazi occupation, when she was already running errands for Tito's partisans at the age of thirteen.

 _She –_ her name is Jovanka - mistrusts everyone. Her neighbours in the village - fascists, all of them, don't you dare show your face there or the game will be up immediately! Even her own family - none of her numerous descendants seem to have inherited her rebellious genes, and she takes that as a personal insult. She still rails against her husband, even though he must be dead for close on fifty years now, calling him a weakling and a fool. She heaps scorn on her children and grandchildren - they're sheep, the lot of them. Even the oldest of her great-grandchildren, Goran by name, nineteen years of age, and the only one of them with any kind of backbone, is apparently proving a disappointment. He's just interested in money after all, like the rest of the world, nowadays. Dreams of becoming a _banker_ , would you believe it? Fat chance, stuck here in the backwoods, with his mother dead of drink and three younger sisters to support. He's joined the _army_ now, of all things, solely for the steady income they offer, of course, but wouldn't _you_ rather die from shame than -

Her voice washes over him, shrill like the metal spoon that she's using to scrape the last of the soup from the bottom of the pot, grating on his frayed nerves. He barely understands half of what she's telling him, his exhaustion and her heavy local accent combining badly with his still limited knowledge of the language, crammed into his already overtaxed brain in far too little time when the trail unexpectedly led into Serbia. Baron Maupertuis, being a Belgian aristocrat, of course spoke only French, and his connection to the former-warlords-turned-arms-dealers in Belgrade had come as a surprise.

This is the longest he's been truly on his own, since he left London two years ago. Reliable contacts are thin on the ground in this country that keeps oscillating between wanting to be part of and antagonising the Western world; a country torn apart and gutted by civil war two decades ago and still in the process of reassembling itself. There was very little time for proper planning or preparation for this last stage of his mission. All he had was this location for how to get out again when he was done; all the rest he's had to come up with himself, and it's taken its toll. To say that he's in bad shape would be a gross understatement. He should feel triumphant, so close to completing the self-imposed task that has been his entire raison d'être for two years; but in truth, he's just sick and tired of it all.

She's still talking, and still rather loudly, even though the pot is empty now. She probably takes him for a bit of an idiot, since he's so slow to respond.

He certainly _looks_ like an idiot. The first thing she handed him when he sat down at her table was neither a plate nor a spoon, but a broad worn-out rubber band, the type that goes around the lids of pickle jars to make them airtight. She meant him to use it to tie that ridiculous mane of hair together, rather than letting it get into his food. The fact that he took a while to realise that probably confirmed her in her unfavourable opinion of his intellectual powers.

He's grateful for it now - for the rubber band, not for her unfavourable opinion - because getting rid of that mop may just be the one thing that he's looking forward to most, when he gets out of here tomorrow. It served as a useful disguise throughout the weeks he spent busking in the streets of Belgrade, playing third rate pop songs on a second hand guitar while he waited for his chance. (No point at all in trying to impress anyone on the violin, in the Balkans. And no way of hiding his classical training, which would have marked him as a foreigner straight away.) But ever since Maupertuis' body departed on its journey south and east, floating on the gentle waves of the Danube, and he's been running as fast as he could in the opposite direction, for the Croatian border, his current hairstyle has been more of a liability than a help.

He's seriously considering asking his host for a pair of scissors there and then, when she briskly replaces the used plates on the table with two cups of scorching hot herbal tea from her own garden, a small tray of home-made Baklava, and a faded old map.

Three times in all, she explains the route through the forest towards the river and to the small ancient chapel on the riverbank where he is to meet the man with the dinghy at midnight. Ratko is always reliable, and very careful of his cargo, she assures him cheerfully, whether it's a couple of crates of contraband cigarettes, or a whole family from some Middle Eastern hellhole en route for the blessed realm of the European Union.

It's not exactly reassuring to think that the value of his life is the equivalent of a crate of cigarettes now, but then, there's no point in closing his eyes to the truth. There must be a reason why Jovanka is making such a strong point of telling him how the currents run in these parts, and where best to climb ashore on the Croatian side, in case he misses his appointment with Ratko, or in case the border police sink their vessel. Here, in the warmth of her house and fairly cloyed with her soup and the Baklava that's dripping with honey from her own bees - he heard them hum in their hives when he climbed across the fence this morning – it's easy to forget that he's not safe yet by any means. The way the staff at the station looked at him with narrowed eyes when he got off the train in Apatin, and the fact that he saw not only one but two police cars pass along the road westward while he was making his much slower way through the forest alongside told him as much. But still -

When she pours him more of the tea and starts going over the instructions for the third time, her voice fades to a steady background drone, much like that of her bees. Her face is beginning to slide in and out of focus as she talks, her parched, colourless lips opening and closing in a rhythm that no longer makes any sense to him. He reaches for his cup to take another sip. It burns his tongue, but he barely notices. The stuffy warmth from the wood stove in the corner descends on him like a woollen blanket, comforting and stifling at the same time. It sucks him down into a vortex of memories, his tired brain too overwrought to resist the pull. The _other_ old lady with the bad hip, chattering and making him tea and feeding him sweets, is only the first image that bubbles up to the surface of his mind, but it's strong enough to make him almost groan with homesickness. Within seconds, he's gone from the humble Serbian cottage, and back in his own living room at 221B Baker Street. The old lady's gone then, but there's a heavier tread of feet on the stairs now, the door opens, a man's cheerful voice calls his name, and he turns and sees -

It's too much. He pushes himself to his feet, shaking his shaggy head to clear the vision from it, and with a muttered apology stumbles blindly to the door.

The cold night air outside hits his flushed face like a blast. It's not instantly sobering, but it does clear away the broken visual fragments in his head bit by bit. He sinks down on the rough bench against the wall of the house, scrubbing both hands across his glowing cheeks and brow, and takes deep breaths of the sharp, clean air. A moment later, the bench creaks when Jovanka lowers herself down next to him. In the darkness, he can hardly make out her face. Wordlessly, she holds out a small tin box to him, filled with hand-rolled cigarettes. He takes one with a nod of gratitude, and she strikes a match for him to light it, then lights one for herself.

He's not even finished his first long pull on it when his sluggish mind realises what they're doing. With a muttered curse, he drops the cigarette to the ground and grinds it out under his shoe. Too late. A neighbour passing along the dirt road on the other side of Jovanka's garden fence, a mere twenty yards from the house, calls an innocent greeting across to them. Of course only she returns it, while he keeps utterly still, trying to melt back into the dark wall of the house. But the haste with which she bundles him back inside as soon as the neighbour is out of sight, and with which she starts putting together the supplies he'll need for the last stage of the journey, tells him clearly that she, too, knows he's just made a mistake he couldn't afford.

Their only hope is in speed, and although his whole body is soon shaking with the exertion, he is running now, literally, stumbling along the dark forest tracks along the route he's committed to memory, westward towards the river. He barely feels the unseen branches overhanging the path that whip across his face, and he barely feels the damp cold that creeps under his threadbare clothes. He doesn't hear the little night sounds of the forest, the wind whispering in the trees, and the little animals scurrying for cover, just like him.

He manages another mile: then two; then he catches his foot against the root of a tree and goes down heavily. Scrambling back to his feet, he has to acknowledge that he needs to slow down if he doesn't want dawn to catch up with him lying somewhere in the woods with a broken ankle, still on the wrong side of the river.

He squints at the fluorescent numerals on the cheap watch he's wearing, and with satisfaction notes that he's already got further than he expected. In fact, beyond that ridge he can see not too far off ahead, the night sky between the trees is a much lighter black than the darker black of the forest floor. That's where the ground starts sloping towards the water. If he isn't careful, he'll even be early for his appointment with Ratko and his dinghy.

He allows himself a moment of rest, closing his eyes and leaning his back against the rough bark of a tree until he can feel his pounding heart slow down at last, and the stitch in his flank subside.

Then he hears the helicopter.

* * *

She talks incessantly.

She must be forgiven, really - she's nervous, that's all. It's irritating, because they've mastered many a crisis together before, and her usually unshakeable calm and utter professionalism are those of her qualities that he appreciates most. But her nervousness now is of course only the mirror image of his own far too obvious tension. He definitely needs to get a better grip on himself.

But he's really not interested in the details of how exactly they got hold of the footage from the night vision camera aboard that helicopter. And she wouldn't have brought it to him straight away if there had been any doubts about its authenticity, so there's really no need either to natter on about how exactly their technical experts ascertained that it _is_ real.

All that matters is what he can see on it. And what he can see on it is like a cold fist closing around his heart. Contrary to - carefully upheld - popular belief, it isn't closing on empty air.

"And only a couple of miles from the border?" he interrupts the constant apologetic flow of his assistant's words, his eyes still fixed on the screen in front of him.

"Not even a mile," she replies, her voice dropping low with sympathy and regret.

He doesn't hesitate, not even for a second.

* * *

The roar of the helicopter engine, the steady chop-chop-chop of the rotor blades slicing through his brain, jerks him back to consciousness. He can feel the reverberations in his body, shaking him from head to foot.

 _Run_ , that ear-splitting noise tells him, and he tries, but he can't, in spite of his desperate struggling. They're not letting him.

 _They_ are the hands. They're everywhere, groping, grabbing, pinning him down, his shoulders, his arms, his chafed wrists, his hips, his thighs. The hands down there are the ones he needs to worry about most, he knows; the others are just there to hold him in place on the metal floor, his cheek against the cold, heavily vibrating surface. Everything is cold: the air he's drawing in with shallow breaths, his clammy skin, their voices.

"Keep _still_ now," one of them snaps at him in Serbian, and he feels the hold on his wrist and elbow tighten. "Or how am I supposed to get the needle in?"

Blind panic surges through him at this. Drugging him is something they haven't tried before. But they've proved quite inventive when it comes to finding ways of making him meek and compliant. So he's just inches away from yet another variation on the same theme.

His heartbeat speeds up frantically, his muscles twitch reflexively, and with an almighty wrench, he tears his arm back out of their hold. The stab of pain that shoots through his sprained shoulder joint makes his eyes water. But he feels the sharp tip of a needle scrape ineffectually across the inside of his forearm, tearing the surface of the skin, and there's a muffled curse. Thank heaven for small victories.

"Just try and give him something to drink," another voice suggests. He knows that one; it belongs to the young private, the one who's always limited himself to the guard duty he's officially assigned to. So far. Sounds like he's beginning to see the fun side of being in charge of a defenceless prisoner now, too.

And sure enough, a moment later, there's an arm across his bare chest to pull him upright, scratchy in its woollen uniform coat. A hand in the tangles of hair on the back of his head tilts it backwards. He presses his lips together and tries to turn away, but someone else's hand clamps firmly around his jaw, thumb and forefinger digging into the joints on either side to force his mouth open. A luke-warm liquid fills his mouth. He retches, and a part of it goes down the wrong way. His stomach contracts, and a moment later, everything that was left in it comes back out.

"Jesus Christ," the young one mutters, and the arm holding him up releases him suddenly to slump back down onto the vibrating floor. He doesn't feel whether he lands in his own mess or not, and he doesn't care. It's another short respite, that's all that matters.

All too short, because a moment later, there's a pair of hands on him again. Their touch is deceptively gentle this time, one of them in a steadying hold on his still aching shoulder, and the other against his forehead, brushing off the damp strands of his hair. The sudden tenderness of it is sickening, or it would be if it didn't feel so surprisingly genuine. He should know better than to fall for it, he tells himself, but he's weak, so weak, and the temptation to just let those warm hands turn his head carefully to one side, exposing the side of his neck, becomes too great to resist.

"Put him under," a third, new voice says, and it sounds more like a plea than an order.

There's no time to remember why he can hear _that_ voice of all, in this company. A needle goes into his neck, and a moment later, a mockery of peace and calm begins to spread from the injection site all through his flayed body, and oblivion washes over him.

* * *

The roar of the helicopter engine, the steady chop-chop-chop of the rotor blades slicing through the air, is a blessing and a curse at the same time.

It's a curse because he's taking an extreme risk, announcing both their sudden departure and their course so openly to anyone in the small army base who happens to listen and look up. But they have no time to lose. Luckily, nobody seems to take note. With deep-seated discipline, they don't question the actions and orders of a superior officer, even when the officer in question is a complete fake.

It's also a curse because it's pulling their charge back from the brink of unconsciousness inconveniently soon. He was a lot easier to handle when they had to half drag, half carry him all the way across the compound of the base to their aircraft. He was a dead weight, even though he's skinnier than ever before; but at least he let them do it.

But it's a blessing, too, because the thundering noise masks the awful little sounds of protest that this miserable bundle of rags and hair and blood starts making now, when the two other men of his team lower him onto the bare floor of the helicopter and start going over him to check which of his injuries need to be seen to most urgently.

He himself should be concentrating on his own part in this stage of the mission – he's in charge of the radio and of navigation. But they haven't got far to go and their course is simply due west. So while the helicopter lifts off, he watches, and he sees all of it – he sees every bruise, every cut, every welt, every smear of blood on that half-naked body that is struggling against them with every last ounce of strength that's left in it.

This degree of opposition is unexpected and disquieting. It's no surprise that he and his little motley crew are not being recognised for who they really are, still in their uniforms, still sticking to the language that three out of four of them speak best. The short moment of lucidity that got them out of that torture chamber in the first place didn't last, and it couldn't be expected to. And with both eyes swollen three-quarters shut, it must be hard to make out their faces and realise their friendly intent.

But all the same, the sheer desperation behind that resistance makes something give a twinge in his chest.

He knows better than to interfere. The grey-bearded war veteran-turned-mercenary he has enlisted for this has had some training as a combat medic. And the boy is inexperienced but both eager to help and stronger than he looks, as he proves when he catches those flailing arms and keeps them pinned down, at least for a while.

No major broken bones as far as he can see, the grizzled medic reports a moment later, voice raised to carry above the noise of the engine. And no visible bleeding of a worrying degree. Getting some fluids and pain killers into him is all they can do at the moment.

He nods to signal his approval.

The man starts rummaging in his kit, muttering under his breath. The boy tightens his hold, exposing the inside of the right arm for an IV line. But a moment later, the needle goes astray.

"Just try and give him something to drink," the young one suggests then, and he's right. Those cracked, bloodless lips speak all too clearly of a dangerous degree of dehydration. They can't afford to wait. The medic nods and picks up a water bottle.

Just like with the needle, they're doing more harm than good. And now he knows exactly why, much as he doesn't want to believe it.

He's forced to acknowledge the truth when a moment later, a gush of vomit hits the floor. The noise of the engine drowns out the ugly accompanying sounds, but it does nothing to hide the unnaturally milky-white colour.

"Jesus Christ," the boy mutters, voicing what they're all thinking.

He's out of his seat and on his knees by the trembling, prone body before he knows it, one hand on an aching shoulder and the other against a forehead damp with cold sweat, brushing off the strands of overgrown hair. He's fully aware that he must be making things worse, and he's braced for a violent response to his touch, but he can't help himself.

And miraculously, he's met with no more protest. He knows better than to mistake that for anything but pure exhaustion. But all the same, he can find a little bit of comfort in how he's allowed to turn the head carefully to one side, exposing the side of the neck.

"Put him under," he says to the medic, more a plea than an order.

The man jumps back into action, and gets out another needle.

They wait in silence for the ketamine injection to take effect. He feels drained. This is the first respite since they got on board; _his_ first real respite since he embarked on the mission, to be exact, and it must show. He's rubbish at this, he thinks bitterly while he sits there with that shaggy, lolling head in his lap. It's the one task in his life that really matters, and he's failed at it yet again.

When the other two start carefully working the blood-spattered trousers down, concerned what other damage they may have missed in their first cursory examination, he turns his head away to look out of the side window. Whether they're right or not, he doesn't need to see it.

None of his companions knows whose orders they've been following, and neither do they know who it is they've rescued. So they probably just think him too squeamish or too arrogant to dirty his hands. He doesn't care. He's not going to let them see his tears.

Deep on the dark ground below them, the woods are ending, and a moment later they pass across the broad, meandering band of the Danube, into safety.

They'll be home soon.

He finds himself contemplating the idea of talking the powers that be into another NATO bombardment of Belgrade. It doesn't seem out of proportion, given what those pigs have dared to do to his little brother.

* * *

The aptitude for denial is a strange aspect of the human psyche. He has always mistrusted the mechanism so far, which is only logical when one has spent as much time and effort on perfecting the art of emotional detachment as he has. But recently, he's found himself taking refuge in it on a regular basis, and it's always helped. A little.

Right now, yet again, he's trying to deny the fact that this isn't all just a bad dream. And for some reason, they're making it unexpectedly easy for him this time.

The pain is still there, not a fibre of his body where he can't feel it. But due to the effects of whatever drug he was given, it's back in the bearable category, reduced to no more than a dull ache now.

The light is wrong, too. It's far too bright through his closed eyelids. Daylight? He hasn't seen it in a week.

The silence is wrong, too. There's usually a constant banging of metal doors, shouts of orders, snatches of rough laughter, heavy treads of booted feet. This time, there's only the hum of an air conditioning system, and the small, regular beeping of some kind of electronic equipment.

The softness of the floor he's lying on is _completely_ wrong.

You don't put bedsheets on a floor, either. But he can feel the starched, stiff fabric against the side of his face.

That sensation, however, corresponds with the smell of disinfectant that pervades the whole room. And with the cannula in the back of his hand, taped neatly in place in a clearly professional manner.

He realises that his eyes must have opened, to be seeing this.

He can see his hand, resting on the mattress right in front of his face. Beyond it, he can see the side of the bed next to his own. That one's empty, its crisp sheet and the brown woollen blanket over it pulled almost obsessively straight and tight.

His eyes narrow as they focus on the large black letters woven into the edge of the blanket. _Minist - brane,_ they say, the middle part hidden where the fabric has been folded over. His brain automatically supplies the rest. _Ministarstvo Odbrane,_ Ministry of Defence.

Once again, denial has run its course, and proved useless. He's still in the same damned language. They must have overdone things a bit after all, to land him in a military hospital. But that means he's just here to be patched up for the next round.

His heart begins thumping in a frantic rhythm. He's learned that there are some experiences that don't become more bearable with repetition, and there's nothing he can do to stop his body from reacting to the prospect the way it does. He sees his hand twitch, and braces himself for the inevitable clanking sound that will alert them to the fact that he's awake. His hand will be cuffed to the bedrail, of course, and if he doesn't manage to stop it moving -

It's not. On the contrary, his wrist has been carefully bandaged, light brown stains of iodine peeking out from under snowy white gauze. When he furtively touches the tips of his fingers to his face, he discovers more little kindnesses that he has no explanation for. The gooey substance on his burning, chapped lips is not a residue of various bodily fluids, but a generous coating of Vaseline. Someone has even tied his filthy hair back off his face.

It makes no sense.

It's an age until it dawns on him that the words he's just seen on that blanket were in Latin characters, not Cyrillic, and what that means.

The person that steps into his field of vision a moment later is no more than a blurry outline. He blinks furiously, but the tears keep coming. Relief, bone-deep relief, is proving just as impossible to control as mindless panic.

The apparition sits down carefully on the edge of the empty bed. "Dobro došli u Hrvatsku," it says, and smiles.

 _Welcome to Croatia._

It takes an embarrassingly long time for his vision to clear.

"You made it," his visitor continues meanwhile. "Prababa Jovanka will be happy."

The boy finally comes into focus. He looks very different in civilian clothes - plain white polo shirt and jeans - but he's still got his ubiquitous black earphones dangling round his neck.

 _Of course._

"Goran, is it?" he asks, digging deep into his memory for the name. His voice is hoarse, and he needs a second attempt to make it heard at all. "She'll be proud, I hope." His voice fails him again, and the rest comes out in a whisper. "Of you, I mean."

The boy beams at him. "Oh, she'll find a reason to whinge, even so. She always does."

His heartbeat suddenly speeds up again. "Will she be alright? I mean - "

"Of course. She survived the Nazis, you know. She can look after herself."

"And you - "

"I was just a small cog in the machine, really. If you want to thank anyone, thank your boss, that daredevil. Not me."

"Who?"

Goran straightens up, juts out his chin and draws himself a prominent nose with his forefinger. "That one." It's an uncanny imitation. The boy knows it, and grins.

Giggling is not a good idea. It pulls too badly at the torn muscles of his abdomen. He also discovers that he's probably cracked at least one rib. So now he knows why they've put him to lie on his side. He clutches the place with his hand and makes an undignified grunting noise.

Goran sobers up, looking guilty. "Sorry."

"Is he here?"

"He was. But this morning, when the doctor said you were stable and just sleeping now, he said he had to get back to work, and left." He snorts. "Wonder what _this_ was, then. A holiday?"

The single word instantly puts him back in the underground chamber.

 _Sorry, but the holiday is over, brother dear. Back to Baker Street._

The memory almost yanks him upright. "I've got to go, too."

His body disagrees. The muscles in his back scream in protest when he tries to prop himself up, and the room starts spinning rapidly all around him.

"Jesus, be careful." Goran is by his side, lowering him back down with both hands on his shoulders. "You're even worse than him!"

"What?"

"He said you're to come after as soon as you can walk and talk, which the doc thought preposterous, by the way. But you are allowed to wait til you're back on your feet, you know."

"I _can't_ wait." He meant it to sound defiant, but it comes out in a strangely small, longing voice.

"I know," Goran confirms cheerfully while he stuffs the supporting pillows back in place behind his back and between his knees. "I want to get out of here, too." His task completed, he resumes his seat on the bed opposite. "I can't go back, of course."

There is an awkward silence for a moment. What do you say to someone who's just thrown away his own future for your sake? The boy really is far too young to choose this line of work with open eyes. Whatever romantic ideas he had in his head of braving danger and reaping glory, he's seen enough already on this very first mission of his to know what the reality of undercover work looks like. He's got the sad and sorry evidence in front of his eyes right now. But it's too late already. He's committed himself, and there's no turning back. It doesn't seem fair, at nineteen.

"You've worked for him before, I suppose?" Goran asks suddenly.

He frowns, wondering where this is going. "Occasionally, yes," he replies, quite truthfully.

The boy twists his fingers in his lap. "Then would you say he's the type who keeps his promises?"

"Absolutely." The word comes out of its own accord before he can think about it. In spite of it all, he's the living proof of it.

Goran's face relaxes into a delighted grin. "Then I really can't wait for you to be fit to travel, either. I'm to come with you, you know. He said he'd have a contract ready for me to sign when I arrive. They're waiting for me to start my training as soon as possible."

The boy's naivety is hard to believe. "Just see to it that you don't end up like me," he mutters bitterly. "I thought I was made for this, too."

"I know, " Goran says quietly, instantly apologetic. "I'm sorry." But then the smile returns. "No danger of that at the Bank of England, though."

He's never felt more stupid in his life. Seems like Prababa Jovanka was right in thinking him an idiot, after all.

When he tells the boy so, they even share a laugh.

In a couple of days, he'll be on a plane, together with the boy who risked his own skin to save him, and who will now, in return, learn the trade of his dreams from the world's best in the City of London. It seems like a fair exchange. A happy ending at least for one of them.

He made it, yes. But no matter what he may manage to make it look like on the surface, he didn't make it in one piece.

He's alive, and he's back, but he wishes he had better news.

* * *

The aptitude for denial is a strange aspect of the human psyche. He has always mistrusted the mechanism so far, which is only logical when one has spent as much time and effort on perfecting the art of emotional detachment as he has. But recently, he's fallen into the trap of taking refuge in it, and he regrets it more than he can say.

There was no knowing when his brother would complete his mission; there was no certainty whether he would even return from it alive. So there was no point in trying to prevent what was happening here in London, meanwhile. It would even have been out of order to try and influence events in a certain way, seeing how much significance ordinary mortals tend to assign to romantic relationships. Even he himself acknowledges that they do have a stabilising function when successful.

So who was he to deny his brother's grieving best friend a bit of stability in his life?

To be entirely honest, it was even a relief to share that responsibility with this unexpected and unwitting new ally of his.

But now it's coming back to bite them all.

He should not have closed his eyes to the signs of just how serious the couple were about it, how quickly they progressed from casual dating to an established relationship, how soon they moved in together.

The inevitable result is summed up in the slim folder he's holding in his hands now, and it couldn't have come at a worse time. Underneath a recent photograph, taken with a long lens on the day of their last visit to the cemetery, there's a copy of the receipt from the jeweller's for the ring, and the confirmation of the dinner reservation for tonight.

There is a knock on his door, and his assistant looks into his office. She's smiling.

"He's here," she says simply.

With a sigh, he closes the file.

He wishes he had better news.

* * *

THE END

February 2016

* * *

 **Endnotes:**

This story owes its existence to maryagrawatson's two little gems, "Lov" and "One Second", which are posted on AO3. They were just begging to be expanded on.

Thank you to my incomparable beta reader Cooklet, who took a great leap of faith when she agreed to go to such dark places with me. I'm glad I didn't go alone.

The idea of an ex-soldier with medical training on Mycroft's rescue team makes its first appearance in GhyllWyne's "Something Broken" (here on the site), and is reused here with the author's kind permission.

As always, feedback is endlessly appreciated!


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